Be Mine, Miss Valentine Page 3

  Alex sighed. "I'll try, Bern."

  "Don't try. Just do it."

  * * *

  When Ronnie arrived home that evening, she pulled into the parking area behind the house. Sam's beat-up Chevy pickup truck was parked in its usual spot and next to it, gleaming with wax, rested Alexander Summerfield's silver Mercedes. Probably bought it to match his eyes, Ronnie thought maliciously.

  As she climbed the outside steps to her second floor apartment, she glanced back at the carriage house. All the windows were open; filmy white curtains billowed out in the afternoon breeze.

  It was a glorious day—clear and sunny. Ronnie decided she really did need to get some exercise. After letting herself in, she walked through her apartment and opened all the windows. Then she poured herself a cold glass of lemonade; she slowly sipped it and glanced through her mail.

  A bill from the electric company. An envelope containing an offer to go look at some land around Lake George. And a letter from Kate.

  Ronnie grinned. Kate Chamberlin had been her college roommate and had remained her best friend ever since. Kate lived in New York City and worked for a big advertising agency which meant she and Ronnie didn't get to see each other as often as they'd like, but they were faithful about calling and writing.

  Settling down to read Kate's letter, Ronnie chuckled at Kate's latest anecdotes about dating in the city.

  Kate's contention was that there were no good men in New York City. "They're either gay or married or divorced and have no intention of marrying again," she'd complained just a few weeks ago.

  "Well, there are no men at all in Juliette," Ronnie had answered, "so I don't feel sorry for you."

  "Come on, Ronnie," Kate said. "What about William?" Then they both laughed.

  William was one of Ronnie's deputies. He was only twenty-one years old, but that hadn't stopped him from trying to jump her bones every chance he got. Ronnie's theory about William was that he thought it manly to put the move on her whether he was interested or not. She could just see the wheels turning in his head. Older woman. Probably experienced. Mark another notch on the old belt.

  After finishing Kate's letter, Ronnie put on her running shoes and blue shorts and a white T-shirt and walked outside.

  Keeping an eye on the door of the carriage house, she slowly did stretching exercises on the porch, but she saw no sign of her new neighbor. Straightening, she ran lightly down the steps; then, gathering speed, she jogged down the walk, gaining momentum with each stride. Reaching the corner of the house, she made a sharp left turn and ran smack into a rock-solid wall of flesh.

  "Look out!"

  Strong hands gripped her shoulders.

  Heart hammering and head spinning from the impact of her collision with him, Ronnie looked up, cursing herself for her carelessness.

  Alexander Summerfield grinned down at her. "Were you looking for me?" he said.

  His warm, smooth palms slid down her bare arms. Ronnie's insides bounced around like Mexican jumping beans. If she'd thought he looked gorgeous before, she couldn't think what adjective to apply to him now. He looked as if he'd just stepped out of the shower. His dark hair glistened as the late afternoon sun shimmered on its surface. Dressed in a pair of pale gray cotton pants and a white cotton shirt open at the throat, he smelled like sandalwood and looked like every girl's summertime dream.

  "Don't flatter yourself," she said.

  He grinned, that disarming grin that had so infuriated her earlier. The grin seemed to say he knew exactly what she'd been thinking, despite her words to the contrary.

  "Well, if you're not looking for me, what are you doing here?"

  "I live here."

  "Live here? I thought Barzini lived here."

  "He does." She was tempted to smile as she saw the confusion that flitted across his face.

  "I see," he said slowly. The teasing twinkle in his eyes faded, replaced with knowing disdain.

  "No, you don't see," Ronnie said, although why she felt compelled to explain to him, she didn't know. "Sam is my cousin. He lives downstairs. I live in the upstairs apartment."

  Now the knowing look disappeared, and Alexander Summerfield had the grace to look embarrassed.

  Then, with that hint of arrogance and hidden amusement she detested, he drawled, "So we're neighbors."

  "Yes. Now, if you don't mind, you'll have to excuse me. I was just starting to run." She turned away. "Goodbye, Mr. Summerfield."

  His hand stopped her as it closed around her upper arm. He gently turned her around to face him again. "Hey," he said softly, "don't go away mad."

  Ronnie took a deep breath. "I'm not mad, Mr. Summerfield. I'm just not interested in continuing this conversation."

  "I'm sorry we got off to such a bad start. Since we're neighbors, it would be nice if we could be friends."

  That'll never happen, Ronnie thought. He was much too sure of himself: too conceited, too arrogant, too handsome, and most of all—too unsettling—for them to be friends. She shrugged.

  Obviously taking her shrug for agreement, he smiled. "Now that we've settled that, how about calling me Alex instead of Mr. Summerfield? Mr. Summerfield makes me feel like an old man." He chuckled, running his fingers through his hair. "And despite these gray hairs that you see, I'm only thirty-seven."

  "I—" Oh, what the heck, she thought. It would take more energy to stay mad at him than it would to go along with him. And he was living awfully close. "Sure ... Alex," she said.

  "And what do I call you? Sheriff?" His eyes twinkled.

  "My name is Veronica, but everyone calls me Ronnie."

  "Veronica," he repeated softly. "A lovely name. Unusual, too." His eyes were filled with warmth as they rested on her face.

  For just a moment, Ronnie felt totally unnerved by his gaze. Then she shook off the feeling. "Veronica was my grandmother's name." Now why had she told him that?

  "Why don't you use it? Why do people call you Ronnie?"

  "My mother died when I was just a baby, and I guess Dad wasn't sure what to do with a girl. He's the one who called me Ronnie, and the name stuck."

  "I like Veronica much better. May I call you Veronica?"

  The way he said her name, rolling it on his tongue, caused her heart to accelerate. Damn the man. Why did he make her feel like a star-struck teenager? "Mr. Summerfield—"

  "Alex."

  "Alex." Ronnie wet her lips and watched his eyes follow her tongue. She could feel herself flushing. Oh, it was infuriating that she couldn't control her emotions around him. That lawyer, the one named Jeanne, would have probably cut him down to size with several well-chosen words, whereas Ronnie couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't make her sound petty. "Call me whatever you like," she finally said. "It's entirely up to you." She didn't intend to see him often enough that it would matter. She intended to avoid him if at all possible. She didn't like the feelings he evoked in her. Ronnie liked being in control, and from the moment she'd set eyes on him, she'd felt herself whirling out of control.

  "Good. Now, why don't you go have your run, and then when you're finished, why don't you let me take you out for a hamburger or something? We can get to know each other better."

  "Mr. Summerfield—"

  "Alex."

  Ronnie sighed heavily. "Alex, what makes you think I want to get to know you better?"

  His silvery eyes gleamed with amusement. "Just what is it about me that you dislike so much?"

  "Everything," she said before she could stop herself.

  "Everything?" His lips quivered. "That's going to make it tough. Everything, huh?"

  Ronnie studied the toe of her left shoe. This whole conversation was ridiculous. Why hadn't she just terminated it and run off? Now she felt stupid and silly. A definite disadvantage around the sophisticated Alex Summerfield.

  "Well, I like everything about you," he drawled.

  Ronnie's stomach curled up, and her breathing quickened. Slowly, she raised her head, and their eyes met. She
knew her cheeks were pink.

  "And I'm not holding it against you that you nearly arrested me twice today," he added, voice low and teasing.

  "I was just doing my job," Ronnie said automatically, but her heart wasn't in it, and she knew he knew it.

  "It's still hard for me to believe that a tiny female like you is sheriff. You don't look big enough or strong enough for a job like that."

  All her life Ronnie had fought against the misconceptions her size caused. Her father and her brothers had both tried to discourage her from pursuing a career in law enforcement, even after she'd successfully received a degree in criminal justice and law enforcement. Her father had grudgingly appointed her a deputy sheriff, warning her that she'd have to work twice as hard as anyone else because of who she was as well as because of her sex and appearance.

  She'd proven she could handle the job, though, and before her father died five years ago, he'd admitted as much.

  "You've done a damn good job, Ronnie. I'm proud of you."

  Her heart had swelled with happiness at this accolade from the father she'd always adored. His respect meant more than anything else. It was then that she'd vowed to run for sheriff herself some day—to show everyone that she was her father's daughter—that she could do anything she put her mind to.

  "You know, Alex," she said now, "it's pretty hard for me to believe you're the serious writer you're reputed to be, too. In my experience, pretty boys usually don't have much upstairs." Ronnie punctuated her words with stabbing motions to her head.

  He threw back his head and laughed. "Touche," he said. "I guess I deserved that."

  "Yes, you did. Now please excuse me. I really do have to get my run in."

  "What about the hamburger later?"

  "I don't think so," she said politely. "But thank you for asking." She gave him a mock salute and jogged up the driveway. She could feel his eyes on her, and she had a childish urge to turn around and stick her tongue out at him.

  "Hey," he called. "You're missing a great opportunity to educate me. Wouldn't you like to prove me wrong in all my assumptions about you?"

  Ronnie stopped. Ignore him, her inner voice said. He means nothing but trouble. She heard the crunch of gravel as he walked toward her. She turned around slowly.

  They were standing at the edge of the driveway, where it met the road. Suddenly she was acutely aware of every sight and sound around her. Wild violets sprouted along the road in deep purple clumps. She could hear Sam's T.V. set blaring away inside the house and the muffled clink of dishes from the O'Hara house next door as well as the happy shouts of children at play. The tantalizing aroma of a neighbor's barbecue floated in the warm air. The sun's deep golden rays slanted across Alex's tanned, square face, and his eyes sparkled as they rested on her face.

  "Come on," he said. "Let's call a truce." He stuck out his hand.

  Against her better judgment, Ronnie extended her hand. As his warm hand enfolded hers, her breathing quickened. There was something about the way he was looking at her that made her go all soft inside. Oh, God, the man oozes sex.

  "All right," she said, forcing herself to keep her voice steady. "But I'll still have to pass on the hamburger." There was no way she was going to spend the evening in his company. First she had to figure out how she felt about him. And if she could trust herself around him.

  "Okay," he agreed. "Another time."

  Don't bet on it, she thought. She tugged her hand free, avoiding his eyes, and turned to go.

  "One more thing," he said.

  Ronnie stopped. What now? Didn't the man ever give up?

  "I was dead wrong, you know."

  Curiosity won out over Ronnie's better judgment. "About what?" She turned toward him.

  He moved closer, and Ronnie held her breath. "You don't look eighteen at all," he said softly. "Right now, with your hair pulled up into those tails, and with those little beads of sweat on your nose..." He reached out, and with his thumb he rubbed at the end of her nose.

  Ronnie's stomach curled with a liquid, warm feeling, and her breath came in shallow spurts.

  "...You look more like..." He paused, and a wide grin split his face. His eyes danced. "You look more like a sixteen-year-old!"

  * * *

  The next morning Ronnie was still trying to decide whether she couldn't stand Alex Summerfield or whether she hoped he was interested in her. There had been definite promise in his eyes as he'd waved her on her way the night before. But even if he were interested in her, it would be insanity to get involved with him. All he was probably looking for was a beach bunny to spend the summer with, and Ronnie had no intention of being anyone's beach bunny. That had to be it, because he couldn't be seriously interested in her. She wasn't his type at all. Sixteen!

  Ronnie grimaced as she ate her Rice Chex. It should be obvious to anyone that the type of woman Alex Summerfield would be interested in would be tall, classy, and elegant, with perfectly coiffed hair and long, red fingernails. Ronnie grinned as she looked at her own short, unpainted nails. Forget him, Valentine, she told herself, finishing her morning tea in one last gulp. Then she hurriedly cleaned up the kitchen so she wouldn't be late for work.

  About ten o'clock that morning the first call of the day came through. On any given day in Juliette, there weren't a great many calls to the sheriff's office. An occasional domestic disturbance, or maybe some kids would get drunk and rowdy at the park and someone would report them, or maybe there would be a squabble between neighbors, but there was rarely anything more significant.

  Not that there wasn't occasional danger on the job. Ronnie's first year as a deputy, someone had tried to hold up the gas station, and she'd proven her ability for cool thinking under fire when she'd chased the would-be robber, caught him, and subdued him all by herself.

  Then there was the time a team of con artists tried to pull a scam in Juliette. Ronnie had been suspicious of them from the first. There were two of them: a man and a woman. The woman was a gum-chewing, brassy blonde. Her so-called husband was tall and handsome, but the two of them didn't seem like the kind of people who would stay in an out-of-the-way place like Juliette. They belonged somewhere like Saratoga and the racetrack.

  So Ronnie had decided to investigate. When she'd quizzed Betty Brown, the owner of the bed and breakfast where they were staying, she'd found out Betty was about to invest her entire life's savings in a highly questionable stock deal the couple had convinced her would triple her money in no time at all.

  But those kinds of incidents didn't happen often. The total population of Juliette was 2,365 people, and in the entire county there were only a little over 6,000 hardy souls. There were no main roads coming or going through the county, and the only people who knew Juliette existed were antique lovers. It was a nice place to live because of that, Ronnie thought. No murders, no burglaries, no excitement. Well, hardly any, Ronnie amended, as Alex Summerfield's dancing eyes invaded her memory.

  She picked up the phone. Because William was on vacation and the other deputy working the day shift, Chuck O'Neill, was on traffic detail today, Ronnie would have to handle any calls that came in.

  "It's Miss Agatha, sheriff," said Maisie as she put the call through.

  Ronnie grinned. Miss Agatha, one of Ronnie's favorite people, was an institution in Juliette. She had been born and raised there, and to Ronnie's knowledge, had never had any desire to go anywhere else. Miss Agatha was at least eighty years old but didn't look it, and she was what used to be called a maiden lady.

  "Veronica? Is that you?"

  "Yes, Miss Agatha. It's me."

  "Veronica, you must come right over to the shop. I've been the victim of a robbery!"

  A robbery? Ronnie nearly fell off her chair. "You've got to be kidding," she said.

  "Veronica, I would never stoop to making jokes about anything so serious," Miss Agatha said haughtily. "I am absolutely serious, my dear, and I need your help immediately."

  "Sorry, Miss Agatha," Ronnie said. "
Of course I'll come."

  Ronnie couldn't wait to get there and hear Miss Agatha's story. She jumped out of her chair, then winced. Her muscles were sore today. A little more slowly, she picked up her beeper, strapped on her holster, told Maisie where she was going, and climbed gingerly into her car to drive the short distance to Miss Agatha's Antique Shoppe.

  When Ronnie pulled into the small parking area in front of Miss Agatha's shop, she looked around. Everything looked exactly the same. Miss Agatha's family had owned the Victorian house since 1898. Gingerbready and ornate, it had a porch that ran all around the front and one side, and there were turrets and stained glass windows and numerous angles and curves.

  Miss Agatha had turned the entire ground floor, except for the kitchen and pantry, into her shop and lived upstairs with her friend and helper, Hannah Richardson. Antiques spilled out onto the porch and side yard. Although Miss Agatha would never admit it, Ronnie thought the older woman made a pretty decent living from the shop. Her fame had spread, and now, especially during the warmer months, people had started coming from hundreds of miles away to look through her "finds." Ronnie liked to tease Miss Agatha and tell her she'd put Juliette on the map. The antique business was a thriving one in upstate New York.

  Miss Agatha's screened door squeaked as she stood in the doorway watching Ronnie approach. Ronnie smiled as she saw her. Miss Agatha, a tiny bird-like woman, was always perfectly turned out. Today her white hair was coiled up into a neat topknot, tiny amethyst drop earrings hung from her earlobes, and a lavender silk dress skimmed her tiny body. Miss Agatha favored shades of purple and seldom wore any other color. She stood with her ever-present ebony cane with the ivory handle gripped in her right hand.

  "Good morning, Veronica," she said in a no-nonsense voice.

  "Good morning, Miss Agatha." Ronnie climbed the three wooden steps up to the porch and shouldered her way around a dilapidated-looking cherry wood writing desk that blocked her way.

  Miss Agatha led the way inside. Ronnie sniffed as she entered the wide entry hall. The smell of apples and cinnamon made her mouth water. "Ummm," she said, "is Hannah baking pies?"